


The Twelve Labors of Ushijima Wakatoshi

by tinypersonhotel



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Demigod AU, M/M, and shirabu is an accountant who just wants goshiki to do his homework, farm boy ushiwaka, goshiki is a son of the family ushi works for, t for fantasy violence, tendou is a messenger of the gods, various other cameos from shiratoris and non-shiratoris alike
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-25 15:57:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6201676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinypersonhotel/pseuds/tinypersonhotel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ushijima is the prize farmhand of the Goshiki family estate. He’s also a son of Ceres.</p><p>And he’s about to travel to the ends of the earth to prove it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Twelve Labors of Ushijima Wakatoshi

**Author's Note:**

> this is my haikyuu rarepair exchange gift for thepersonperson! thank you for the excuse to write shiratoris, my absolute favs. i took the opportunity to make it a sprawling outlandish au bc why not???
> 
> warns for violence/gore (i mean uh. fantasy violence/gore for sure but if ur not familiar with the herculean labors maybe check those out first)
> 
> hope you like roman mythology!!

Ushijima appreciates the simple things in life.

Fifty yards behind the main house on the Goshiki family estate, in a cabin that he built himself, Ushijima wakes up before the sun, prepares breakfast over a hot stove, and changes into the work clothes spun from cotton he planted two summers before. He appreciates this routine. He appreciates the stability of the soil he built upon, which never shifts beneath his home, even when the river floods each spring. He appreciates how his cabin is shaded from the blistering sun, so that at the end of the day he can come back to a cool room. He appreciates that he depends on no one. He appreciates that people depend on him. He is very, very good at his job.

So it suits Ushijima that it is the simple things he appreciates so dearly, because those are all he has.

The Goshiki family estate, which stretches farther in every direction than Ushijima has ever traveled, raises every kind of livestock and grows every kind of crop known to humanity. Or so Ushijima has heard: again, he’s never wandered far enough on his pre-dawn walks to find out for himself.

Ushijima is the best farmhand the Goshikis have. He would know this even if the oldest Goshiki son didn’t tell him every time he handed him his Saturnalia bonus. And Saturnalias are the only time he ever sees the oldest Goshiki son to begin with.

He sees Tsutomu, the youngest Goshiki, however, nearly every day. It might even be fair to say that Tsutomu follows him. Ushijima knows that Tsutomu is blowing off his tutors whenever he hangs around, but he also knows that Tsutomu is chronically bored. He is fifth in line to inherit the farm, and the Goshikis are not a clan wont to murder each other over livestock profits.

And in Ushijima’s opinion, Goshiki tries very hard, though he ditches his studies and has to be nagged to scrub the dirt from his fingernails before supper each night. If it were Ushijima’s place, he would tell Tsutomu’s parents that he is a good son, and that he tries very hard to help Ushijima with his daily tasks. And though Ushijima is much faster and better-suited to such work, Tsutomu is a quick study, and furthermore Ushijima appreciates his company.

The first day of Cerealia, Ushijima opens his eyes and inhales the morning air and thinks he should chop wood for the fire before he prepares his breakfast.

The Cerealia festivities aren’t nearly as big as those of Saturnalia. He doesn’t even get time off. But if Ushijima had to pick a favorite holiday, he’d go with the former. His lucky stars always seem to align during the celebration of Ceres: once he uncovered six gold pieces in the fields; another time he caught the biggest, most magnificent deer of his life on a hunt. Ushijima does not love hunting—he prefers the raising part of livestock rather than their slaughtering—but the jerky made a good snack through the winter months, which, while never bitter, were far less interesting than the rest of Ushijima’s year.

This morning, Ushijima’s first task is to chop firewood. The morning is so young that the dew has not yet settled on the leaves, and instead still hangs in the air, in his hair and on his skin. He recovers his best ax from his toolbox and stretches for a few minutes before getting to work.

Ushijima has his fingers stretched down to his toes when he hears Tsutomu’s voice.

“I challenge you to a duel!”

Ushijima finishes his stretch— _eight, nine, ten_ —and peers up. “You should be careful, Tsutomu,” he says plainly. “Your parents would be unhappy if you were hurt.”

Tsutomu frowns. “I’m not going to get hurt. I’m going to win!”

“I don’t have time for a duel today, but if you would like to help me chop wood for the fire, I would be more than happy to share my breakfast with you.”

“I didn’t come here to _help_ you.”

“Have you had breakfast?”

Tsutomu studies his shoes, brow furrowed. “No.”

“Good. Take this ax. I’ll grab another from my shed.”

So together on this first morning of Cerealia, in the space between moonset and sunrise, they chop wood for Ushijima’s stove. As Ushijima piles logs, neatly quartered, behind his cabin, the night-chilled air cools the sweat beading on his skin. Tsutomu places his wood ten feet to the side, and though it would be more convenient for him to consolidate the piles, it is thoughtful of Tsutomu to help him this early in the morning. Once Ushijima is finished, he moves a canvas cover over the wood to keep it dry, and swats the woodchips away from his clothes. The pile is nearly as tall as he is. He really _did_ let himself get lost in thought this morning. Oh well.

“Quitting already?” Tsutomu tosses his head back and laughs. “I could keep doing this all day.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“I could keep—” Tsutomu pauses, grabbing at a cramp in his side. “—doing this all Cerealia!”

“I don’t think we will need to chop any more firewood this festival season. Let alone this _season_. Besides, the porridge is getting cold. I made enough for two.”

Tsutomu’s stomach growls on cue. He curses quietly to himself.

“Fine then,” he decides, drawing up to his full height. “I guess I could take a short break, since you went out of your way for me.”

“I did not. I wasn’t aware you were coming. It is, however, no trouble. Wait here.”

Ushijima brings the bowls of porridge out front, where Tsutomu sits pouting on the grass at the first glimpse of sun through the trees.

Ushijima proffers a steaming bowl. “Thank you for your assistance this morning. Now I have time to complete extra work.”

Tsutomu looks ready to snipe as he shovels a spoonful of porridge in his mouth, but he freezes.

“What is it?”

Tsutomu lowers the spoon, then takes another cautious bite. Then another. He finishes the whole bowl in seconds. It’s— _dammit_ —the most delicious porridge he’s ever had. He could easily eat another three bowls.

“Would you like seconds?” Ushijima asks.

“ _No,_ ” he says quickly. And then, because he can hear his mother’s voice in the back of his head, “No _thank_ you. What’s next today?

“Don’t you have lessons, Tsutomu?”

“Who cares about lessons!” Then he mutters, “They’re not ‘til the afternoon.”

“That should be alright, then. Let’s go.”

Tsutomu leaps to his feet, and despite his earlier cramp and stomach full of porridge, makes a dash for the barn in the hopes he’ll beat his lifelong rival. He manages to sprint several tens of yards before he sees Ushijima is walking in a different direction.

“I want to fix the fence today,” Ushijima calls. “Besides, the animals do not need to be fed for another hour.”

Tsutomu skips to catch up. Even though he’s tall—the tallest in his family—Ushijima is even taller. Tsutomu consoles himself that, at two years younger, he’s the one more likely to grow.

When they come to the fence, a whole section has been completed trampled. The wood is splintered in odd places, and pieces are flung far from the fence. “What the heck happened?”

“I do not know. Perhaps some kind of animal,” Ushijima says. “Like that wild boar that’s been giving the hunting parties trouble lately.”

Tsutomu stiffens. “Wild boar?”

“There’s no need to worry. The rumors say it only comes out at night.”

“I’m not worried. I’ll take it on myself.”

“I would advise against it. It’s already escaped three attempts at capture, and injured several people.”

“I’m stronger than those people.”

“Sure.”

While Tsutomu gathers up the scattered wood, Ushijima sands the salvageable bits and arranges them to interlock again, filling in the gap piece by piece. Tsutomu wishes he’d accepted a second bowl of porridge, and curses Ushijima in his head for being such an early riser. And such a good cook, for that matter.

“And what are you doing up so early, little Tsutomu?”

Shirabu, the Goshiki family’s accountant, stands with his hands tucked in his sleeves a few yards behind, head tilted quizzically to the side.

“Not sleeping through your studies today? You know I expect you for arithmetic lessons this afternoon. I’ll be quizzing you on the work I assigned.”

“I’m not _going_ to your lesson,” Tsutomu complains. “And since when do accountants get up this early?”

“When you have as much money as your family, there are a lot of sums to be done. Too bad you won’t inherit any of it.”

Tsutomu scoffs. “I don’t need to inherit it! I’m going to be the best farmer the world has ever seen!”

Ushijima looks up from his work. “Tsutomu, you promised you would go to your afternoon lessons.”

Tsutomu groans. “I said nothing of _arithmetic_ —”

“Thank you, Ushijima, you’re really the only one who can wrangle this brat around here.”

“—and I am not a brat!”

“Quiet,” Ushijima says suddenly. Shirabu and Tsutomu freeze: they heard it, too—a strange growling from the nearby brush.

“Is it the _boar_?” Tsutomu hisses.

“It only comes out at night,” Ushijima says back, in his normal booming voice, and Tsutomu and Shirabu simultaneously _shush_ him.

The creature bursts forth from the bushes. “Yeah, that’s a fucking _boar_ ,” Shirabu snaps before diving out of the way, face-planting in the dirt. Tsutomu laughs until the boar lunges at him, as well, and he tumbles gracelessly out of the way.

Ushijima readies himself, reaching for his sword, only to find that on this first morning of Cerealia, he’s left it behind.

So much for his divine luck.

The boar is enormous—much larger than any other animal that Ushijima has ever seen. Its tusks glint in the sun and its hooves are bloody and its skin tough and cracked like a reptile’s. His self-preservation instincts, too, of course, tell him to dodge the boar’s attacks—but if he lets it slip by the three of them, it could get to the barn and tear the whole flock to pieces. He has a responsibility to stop it.

So when the boar charges at him, though Tsutomu and Shirabu scream at him to get out of the way, Ushijima digs in his heels and grabs it by the tusks.

The strangest thing happens: he wrestles it to the ground in an instant.

Ushijima is strong. He knows this. He has yet to encounter any feat of strength that has proved difficult. But this boar has taken down entire hunting parties, and fences made of lumber much heavier than he is. No, he has never specifically tested the upper limits of his strength—it would never have occurred to him—but surely this vicious boar that has been terrorizing their lands for months should have put up more of a fight.

“What the hell was that?” Shirabu demands, once the three of them are done gaping. Ushijima takes a step toward the other two, who take instinctive steps back. Ushijima raises his hands, and they flinch.

“It must have been on its last legs,” he reasons.

The tension deflates. “Oh yeah,” Tsutomu says. “Of course.”

“Well, sorry you had to save our asses before breakfast,” Shirabu says, dusting off robes with his long sleeves. “Tsutomu—I better see you this afternoon. Assignments completed.”

Tsutomu looks to Ushijima, who does not budge in his expression. “Yes, sir,” Tsutomu mumbles.

“Sir?” Shirabu laughs. “You really are a miracle worker, Ushijima. They should pay you for babysitting.”

“Tsutomu is only a couple of years younger.”

Shirabu rolls his eyes. Strong and intimidating and resourceful, sure—but Ushijima is dense as the rocks he’s sure this meathead is able to deadlift.

Then again, he thinks, Tsutomu is even worse. They make a good pair, the two of them.

“Pair of _idiots_ , more like,” Shirabu mutters as he makes his way to the main house.

Ushijima notices the tremble in Tsutomu’s shoulder, and wonders if it’s because he’s angry at Shirabu, or afraid of the boar. He rests a hand on it, but learns nothing.

“I could have taken him,” Tsutomu says quietly, and again, Ushijima is not sure who he means.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Being a messenger is a pretty sweet gig, Tendou thinks.

Sure, being a god would be another level of incredible—no limits imposed on his powers, temples erected in his honor, mountain-loads of offerings from festivals held in a satisfying mix of fear and celebration. Tendou had a shot at deification, back before the universe had settled, but his cousin, Mercury, got it instead. And if someone had to be the god of things like _eloquence_ and _trickery,_ surely Tendou was the frontrunner there.

But what’s done is done, and Tendou is a messenger. It’s nearly as good. Sure, it’s not omnipresence, but his abilities of teleportation are effectively instantaneous. He ranks high enough in the universal order that he can get nearly whomever he wants to do his bidding. Or at least to play along with him when he’s bored.

Besides, the politics of godhood are a huge turnoff. Always getting pissed about wedding invitations and accidentally setting off natural disasters. At any given moment they’re either impregnating a human or trying to kill their spouses for it.

Which brings him to the matter at hand.

He doesn’t approach the farmhand at first. He watches, bids the winds to divert the attention from his shock of hair among the stalks of wheat, helps himself to handfuls of berries from the branches hanging low above the river. He watches, and waits. He prefers to have the upper hand—and this guy is so normal, so boring, so unlike the others of his kind that Tendou has encountered in his infinite days, he thinks that surprising him will be no challenge at all. Boo.

The farmhand sits alone in his cabin eating dinner, staring at the far wall. Tendou bites his tongue to keep from laughing—the _braindead_ look really does not suit him.

Tendou blinks, and his form is teleported from outside the cabin inside.

“Hellooooo, Wakatoshi,” he sings.

“Who are you?” the farmhand asks. He has the nerve to take another bite of his food.

“Who am I? Oh, no, Wakatoshi. The much more interesting question is who are _you_.”

“You already seem to know who I am.”

“Fair,” Tendou says. “But I know more than you.”

Ushijima puts down his spoon. “Explain.”

“Have you ever wondered, Wakatoshi, why farm life comes so naturally to you? Why your luck is so stellar during Cerealia?”

“ _Was_ stellar,” Ushijima corrects. “I forgot my sword this morning.”

“And you more than made up for it with your inhuman wrestling skills.” Tendou considers this, a finger on his chin. “Or is it inhumane?”

The farmhand does not seem to get the joke. “You seem to know why. Tell me, please.”

“Wakatooooshiiii,” Tendou sings, tracing a heart in the air around him. “You aren’t just a man. You’re a son of Ceres.”

Boom—life-shattering revelation. Here comes the shock. The tears. The attempts to pinch oneself awake out of dreaming. It’s always Tendou’s favorite part of these assignments.

Instead, Ushijima just says, “That makes sense.”

Tendou drops his arms. “It does?”

“Yes. I am much stronger than any other human I have met.”

Tendou frowns. Is this guy really a son of Ceres? Not Pluto, major god of the underworld and minor god of mood-killing?

“Being strong doesn’t make you supernatural. Don’t take this lightly, Wakatoshi. All this demi-deity business has a way of coming back to bite people.”

“I don’t know what you mean. Plus, I tend not to suffer injuries so easily. My father always told me I was thick-skinned, before he died.”

“He probably meant thick-skulled,” Tendou offers. “You’re pretty well-spoken for a farmboy, aren’t you?”

“I was taught to read when I came here.”

“Ah, then you really _are_ used to demigod treatment.”

“I wouldn’t really know,” Ushijima says. “But I must go to sleep. I need to get up early and fix the fence.”

Tendou flounders for a moment, before he laughs full-bodied. How delightful it is that a human—well, part-human, culturally human creature—could catch him off guard. Tendou loves being surprised as much as he loves doing the surprising, and in this regard, the farmhand does not disappoint.

“Now hold up, Wakatoshi! You don’t think I just came here to tell you you’re a demigod, congratulations, all done here? You have to prove yourself.”

“Why?”

“Do you always ask so many questions, Wakatoshi?”

“No.”

“Good. Gods don’t like that. They’re not used to being questioned.” He stretches, letting his winged sandals flutter, lifting him to touch the ceiling. “Anyway, you’ve already begun to _prove yourself_.”

Ushijima thinks for a moment. “The boar.”

“Ding ding ding. You see, Wakatoshi,” Tendou says, circling around him, feet inches above the floor. “You’ve been assigned twelve labors. The boar was only the first.”

Tendou plucks an apple from the wooden table and tosses it between his hands. “Some of them will come to you. Others you will have to seek. Your mother isn’t big on face-to-face communication; humans, even part-humans, she tends to find too frail to make good companions. Though your father was obviously an exception.” He grins. “She’ll probably tell you what you need to know in your dreams, or through me.”

Ushijima nods. “And when I complete all the labors? What then?”

“You’ll see,” Tendou says, waggling his fingers.

 “I guess I’ve already started.” What an unexcitable creature.

Tendou spins, phases half through the wall on his way out, just to see if it might freak the guy out (it doesn’t).  “Then get to it. Chop chop. One labor down, but no resting on your laurels just yet.”

“Okay.”

“Good night, Wakatoshi.”

“Likewise.”

Tendou pops out of the cabin and flings himself skyward. Ceres will be pleased to know her message was delivered. Tendou’s not sure how he’s gonna break it to her that her son’s about as empty in the head as his father was.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The first labor comes not too long after, in a dream, like the red-haired messenger said it would. Ushijima usually does not recall his dreams, so it’s obvious that this one is a sign.

And it is, literally, a sign—Nohebi Swamp, fifteen kilometers south of his cabin and the main estate, a reasonable walk if he starts early. It comes to him in the dream gentle and shrouded in mist.

Ushijima considers waiting for the next morning to approach the swamp. Certainly the labor—whatever it is that awaits him—would be easier during the day. But Tendou said not to rest on his laurels, and truth be told, Ushijima is somewhat curious about what could be in store. So in the evening, after the animals have been tended to and the fields of wheat stand golden and proud, Ushijima bids goodbye to the other helpers and heads off with his rucksack in the direction of Nohebi Swamp. He packs a lantern and what food he has.

On his way out, he runs into Shirabu, who is making his way back from the main house. Shirabu looks less on-edge than he usually does—perhaps Tsutomu actually showed up for his lessons today. Still, he looks bored, in a different way from Ushijima—he gives the impression that he is cool and perceptive in his silence. Ushijima, on the other hand, has been informed that he has as much of a vibe as a brick wall. He is not sure why the distinction.

“And where are you going?” Shirabu asks, books and rulers balanced under one arm, eyeing Ushijima’s rucksack.

“There is a task I must complete.”

“Very helpful, thanks.”

“I was approached by Ceres in a dream. I was busy caring for the animals during the day, but now I must attend to the vision I had.”

Shirabu drops his books, and a hand flies to his mouth. He looks unable to decide whether he should laugh or snipe back—as well downright horrified. “When’d _you_ up and grow a sense of humor?”

“I am not joking. I was visited by a messenger of hers yesterday. I am her son.”

Shirabu shakes his head, slowly, like he can only process Ushijima at half-speed. “A word of advice? Don’t tell anyone else what you just told me. You have more enemies around here than you know—those who would love to move out of the servant’s quarters and into that cabin of yours.”

“I am certain they could build their own cabins if they wanted a change. I would help.”

Shirabu sighs. “I should have accepted that leftover wine from the kitchen. Good night, Ushijima.”

Ushijima begins his walk alongside the setting sun. The time passes smoothly. Ushijima is patient, and he never gets bored. There is much to see all over the Goshiki land—forests and rivers and mountains in a ring around the sky. The horizon always ends somewhere; it always has for him.

He arrives at moonrise. The sign is just like he saw it in his dream, though more tangible than in his vision. He reaches out to touch the wood, just to be sure: This is the place.

But he still has no idea what he is looking for. He takes out his flint, and the lantern, and lights it before he plunges himself into the humid darkness of the swamp. _Some of the labors you will have to find_ , the messenger had said _, and others will come to you._ Ushijima moves deeper into the swamp, until the ground begins to shift beneath his feet, and he waits to find out which kind of labor this will be.

A wind, harsh and sudden, shrieks through the marshy trees. Ushijima lifts a hand to protect his lantern, but the flame is extinguished with a _hiss_.

Suddenly, there’s a burst of light—and heat—and Ushijima sees the labor unravelling before him, in the form of the Nohebi hydra.

Until now, the largest animal Ushijima had ever seen was the boar which came pummeling through his fence. It is somewhat unfortunate, Ushijima thinks, that such a record had to be broken so swiftly.

The creature is deep green, with scales that reflect the dancing light of the fire breathed from its own mouth. The flames jump and flicker in such a way that Ushijima is unable to perceive the hydra’s form all at once, illuminated partially and dizzyingly. He steadies himself, knees slightly bent, heels dug into the sopping, smelly earth. Though the creature must have sensed him already, having hurled a ball of flame in his direction, he thinks first to confirm whether it picks up only movement, or also light.

The hydra lunges at his paused form. Yup—it’s not blind.

Ushijima rolls out of the way with an _oof_. He stands, catching his balance, and reaches for the short sword at his hip. The creature lunges again, and Ushijima slices through its neck so easily it surprises even him. The beast’s body shudders, spurting blood across his tunic, and it stumbles forward like it’s not done with him just yet. Then it collapses in a heap that rumbles the earth around them, its body sinking slowly into the bog.

Ushijima pats around for a clean swathe of his tunic, so he can wipe the blood from his sword. He hears another faint rustle from the bushes—perhaps the labor is not yet done; there seemed to be no fanfare after all, and it was somewhat anticlimactic. He leans forward with his sword, ready to strike if need be.

Tsutomu emerges from the bushes, his hair slightly singed, looking worse-off even than Ushijima.

“Tsutomu,” Ushijima says. “Why did you follow me?”

“I wanted to help!”

“There is nothing you could have done. This was my job.”

“Why?” Tsutomu demands. “Why do you always think everything is your job? It could just as easily be mine!”

Ushijima shakes his head, and picks Tsutomu—who releases an _eep_ —up by his shoulders, moving him three feet to the side as a flaming branch tumbles from the tree ahead. “The fire,” he explains. “We should get out of here. The whole swamp may go up in flames, and who knows what kind of gasses are trapped beneath the bog.”

Tsutomu points at him. “Not until you explain what you were doing out here! How did you know the Nohebi hydra would be lurking tonight? And what danger did it pose to anyone outside the swamp?”

“I do not know whether it was a threat. It was just something I was instructed to do.”

Tsutomu throws up his hands. “By whom! My father? Are you really going to listen to him like _everyone else—_ ”

Ushijima stops Tsutomu with another, gentler hand on his shoulder. “I was instructed by Ceres.”

Tsutomu furrows his brow. “Ceres? Like— _that_ Ceres?”

“Yes. I’m her son.”

“Come on, I’m not _stupid_ —”

_Hisssssssssssss._

A sound, high and unmistakable, rises from the swamp behind.

Ushijima moves to cover Tsutomu’s form with his own. “Go. It may not have seen you yet. I can finish it off.”

“No _way_ ,” Tsutomu says, pulling his own sword from his belt. “I’ve been training almost as long as you have, and with the same teachers.”

“This is _my_ responsibility,” Ushijima warns. Tsutomu freezes at the severity. He looks hurt, even under the flickering half-light.

The hydra rises to its feet, and in the place where it once had one head, it now has two, grown back freshly and grotesquely. Ushijima wastes no time being surprised; he lunges before it can gain its bearings and whacks off another head. This time the beast does not stumble: the stump of the neck begins to regenerate almost immediately, again with an extra head, so that now the hydra possesses three.

Ushijima ducks to avoid being knocked over by the long, violent swing of one of its necks, careful not to face-plant in the squelching earth. The mud is making it impossible to move quietly or elegantly, though Ushijima has already thrown his sandals to the side. He needs to stop going for the neck. Clearly it’s not working.

But one of the heads breathes out a burst of blue-white flame, and again, as Ushijima ducks and swings to avoid it, he lops the head off as easily as the first.

Dammit. Maybe there is such a thing as _too_ strong.

He wants to go for its belly; perhaps that is the key to its defeat. But the body of the hydra is so long and twisting and half-obscured by swamp and darkness, he is not sure he can get to it. The burning vegetation around him hisses, moist with bog water and putrid. One of the branches overhead topples, and Ushijima narrowly avoids it.

He gets an idea.

He lifts the flaming branch from the earth before it can be smothered by the mud, and charges at the beast.

It isn’t easy to maneuver, even for him—removing the heads with one hand, and cauterizing the stumps with the other, so that two heads won’t return. Then one of its living necks swings, and knocks the torch from his hands—but Tsutomu, ever-defiant, appears again from the bushes, flaming branch in hand, and throws it haphazardly to Ushijima. It burns his hand; he winces. Strong as he is, he’s never been immune to the elements.

Eventually the Nohebi hydra is down to its last remaining head, and Ushijima can hear his own breathing, as heavy and heaving as the beast’s. He finishes the job as sweat rolls off his nose and jaw, the heat from the fire and the exertion as exhilarating as it is exhausting. And the Nohebi hydra, more headless than it began, hits the ground one last time.

“That was a _ma_ zing _!_ ” Tsutomu screams, grabbing Ushijima by his hands and jumping up and down. “That was—so fucking cool.” He blinks, gulping in air, like he hasn’t remembered to take a lungful in ages. “I wanna try.”

“Your parents would be upset if you were hurt.”

Tsutomu pulls his hands away from Ushijima’s suddenly. “I wouldn’t get _hurt_ ,” he complains, and vows not to ruin the moment by having _this_ conversation again.

So they walk back, mostly silent, mud and sweat and hydra blood running off them in rivulets, beneath the peak of the moon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The next labor doesn’t come for another month, and Ushijima wonders if his Ceres, in her timelessness, has forgotten the relatively fleeting nature of her own son’s life. He is strong, not ageless. And to combat his own surprising restlessness, he has taken to awakening earlier and earlier. Even the oldest Goshiki son stops by his cabin to make appreciative note of his extreme productivity.

So the fields are bursting and the exterior walls of the barn are scrubbed spotless and the horses’ stalls are the cleanest they’ve ever been. He builds a new chicken coop and learns to shear sheep. He eats four bowls of porridge a day and twice as many eggs.

Tsutomu has all but given up on his studies. Shirabu, not only _unruffled_ but _refusing_ to be ruffled, will not chase after him in the staunch summer heat. Especially not when he escapes his lessons just to hang around Ushijima, who, even since Shirabu ran into him that one night, has been so agitated it’s visible from the table in the main house where he does his calculations.

Tendou appears again, a few hours before the next labor, on a sunny day. He’s upside-down this time, hanging from a tree by his winged feet, and he grins at Ushijima until he speaks.

“So this labor is one that will come to me.”

“Correct, Wakatoshi.”

When Ushijima reaches for his sword, Tendou makes a _tsk_ ing sound and says, “Not so fast, Wakatoshi. Not every labor involves slaughtering animals. Resist your farmerly impulses.”

Ushijima drops his hand. He is okay with this; he is good at plenty of things besides killing livestock. Besides, if the labor is coming to the main grounds of the Goshiki estate, it’s for the best if it’s nonlethal.

“Who said anything about nonlethal?” Tendou grins. Ushijima wonders if he can read minds. “Besides,” he teases, “I thought you didn’t care about this stuff. You’ve been on edge for weeks.”

“Of course I care. You’ve been watching me?”

“Not the point.” Tendou floats down from the tree. “Because no offense to the _labor_ , but it’s gonna be a pain in the ass. Just you wait.”

Ushijima spends the rest of the day toiling over a soybean field, black circles of dirt on his knees, sun baking the back of his neck. He wishes the labor would just reveal itself to him already, and wonders if maybe sowing an entire field is what Tendou meant by not every labor involving livestock slaughter. It would make sense for Ceres, goddess of agriculture (and making her half-human kids wait around like assholes to be jumped by mystical beasts) to have him complete at least _one_ farming-related task. But as far as he can tell, the only work  he’s completed that day is on behalf of the Goshiki Farm.

Then the birds arrive.

The other farmhands flee as soon as the first vicious _squawk!!_ comes from the western fields. Ushijima makes a dash for the clearing as other farmhands make a run for the forest. As he runs, the sky begins to darken in fragments, shadows passing overhead like fluttering autumn leaves.

When he looks up, there is the largest flock of the largest birds he’s ever seen, with golden beaks and oily black feathers pointed like daggers. Ushijima stands in the center of the clearing as they circle above, stepping out of the way of a few nose-divers as the birds settle on the grass.

Tendou appears before him. “Let me introduce you to these guys. Pets of Mars, god of war and royally fucking up farmland.” One of the pointed feathers flies through his torso; his form wobbles like fog and solidifies again once it’s passed.

Ushijima looks around at the birds, who have lost interest in the two of them, and have begun tearing up the field with their serrated beaks.

“Get out of our way,” one of the birds says to the two of them, pushing between Ushijima and Tendou to pull at the grass with its spiky clawed feet.  

“They speak,” Ushijima says.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you ? Birds are some of the smartest creatures around. Probably even more so than some of you stinky humans.”

Ushijima sees where this is going: The birds will destroy this field, then the next, and the next. The Goshiki Farm will be devastated, and at the height of their harvest. In the winter, its people will starve.

He cannot allow that to happen.

First Ushijima returns to his cabin to obtain his bow. He considers that it might not be the best course of action to provoke a flock that outnumbers him a few hundred to one (two, if you count the messenger and his snarky commentary). But he knows that time  is of the essence, and so he launches three arrows, one right after the other, into the center of the flock. The arrows bounce and clank off of the birds’ feathery hides like they’ve come into contact with heavy-duty armor. A few of the birds stick up their gawkish necks and give him nasty looks. Two leaders of the flock—based on their size and the extra tuft of white feathers on their breasts—approach him.

“Who are you?” Ushijima demands.

“Bokuto!” one of them squawks, and the other, slighter bird whacks him with an extended wing.

“We are the Fukurodani birds,” the more serious one says. “I am Akaashi. We do not care who you are. Get out of our way; we will feed across these lands until we have had our fill.”

“I _never_ get full,” Bokuto says, gesturing toward himself with a flutter of his wing. “I could eat _forever_.”

“If you eat forever, you will die,” Akaashi says. He shoots a glance at Ushijima: “But we will, without a doubt, destroy these lands in our feeding. They no longer belong to the domain of humankind. If you have any sense, you will evacuate immediately.”

“Impossible,” Ushijima says. “Thousands of people depend on these lands for food. Our harvest is now. We will have nothing left for the winter.”

“That is too bad.”

“I must demand you leave.”

Akaashi shrugs, as much as a bird can. “You humans force animals to leave their lands all the time. What we are doing is no different. You’re no more important than us.”

Bokuto hobbles away on two long legs, and Akaashi sighs. “I must return to my flock. Do not launch any more projectiles in our direction. You will regret it.”

Tendou floats back to the earth and leans an elbow on Ushijima’s shoulder. “Looks like you need an alternative approach.”

So for as long as it takes the sun to squeeze itself into the gap between the mountains on the horizon, he attempts to catch the birds, one by one.

Ushijima considers himself generally proficient at _things_. He is not used to the feeling of embarrassment.

But these birds are giving him a run for his money.

Not only are their feathers tough, they’re slick. Every time he manages to sneak up on a bird—which is not easy in an open field—he wraps his arms around it and attempts to wrangle it with rope. But their skins are oily, and they pop out of his hands like the lye soap he trades for at the market.

At least the birds have caused no casualties. Though they are armored to the tooth—do birds have teeth?—they are largely disinterested in Ushijima, and, he assumes, other humans.

But he would still prefer Tsutomu stay a safe distance away.

“Ushijima,” Tsutomu calls, standing proudly with a quiver of arrows strapped across his back. “I’ve come to help!”

“Crap,” Ushijima mutters are he stumbles over another slippery bird. He looks up at Tsutomu wide-eyed and red-faced.

“I am sorry,” he says quickly. “I did not mean to swear. Forgive me.”

“I don’t care about that!” Tsutomu waves his arms frantically. “What the heck are you doing!”

“Trying to catch these birds. They’re somewhat invincible.” He turns and lunges for another passing bird, and it laughs in his face.

Tsutomu thinks there’s something satisfying about watching Ushijima stumble around. It makes him feel like he has a chance at winning at something, for once—and also something else. Maybe a little endearment. But just a little.

“I will help,” Tsutomu declares grandly, stretching his arms to their full wingspan.

Ushijima gives the same response he did the month before: “Tsutomu, this is my burden to bear.”

But gods above if he doesn’t feel like a total asshole trying to hunt down these oversized chickens with his bare hands.

“You know what,” Ushijima says. “Never mind. Please help me, Tsutomu.”

“What!”

“Why are you so surprised? You offered.”

Tsutomu reddens. “I—I—never mind!” he says so loudly that Tendou plugs his ears with his index fingers.

Tsutomu tries to help, for a while, but he’s no better than Ushijima at bird-wrangling. They need yet a different approach. As Bokuto, the ostentatious one, gleefully dodges Ushijima’s latest capture attempt, Tsutomu pauses. “Wait! Scarecrow!” he says to Ushijima. “Can’t we scare them the way the scarecrows in the squash fields?”

“I’m not sure they’d fall for that.”

“They’re still _birds_ ,” Tsutomu says.

Ushijima can’t disagree.

So, in the silliest act of the day, they raise their arms like outspread wings, and make a dash at the main flock.

But the birds do not move. Instead, they laugh.

The birds laugh so loudly the sound fills the air, and Ushijima feels unfamiliar helplessness. He feels like he’s disappointed his mother—but also Tsutomu. It is not a feeling he has ever worried about before, but now that it’s settled over him, he decides he doesn’t like it.

Clouds flood the early evening blue of the sky. Ushijima sees a light from behind a low-hanging, cottony one. How strange, he thinks—the sun has already set, and he has never seen a moon so bright.

But it isn’t a star or a moon: It’s a god.

The god floats down, a furrow in his brow where Ushijima thinks it doesn’t belong. He knows from the color of his hair who it is. Grey-haired Suga, the god of wisdom, strategy, and the arts. Born from the skull of Jupiter, and unwise to disturb.

“And what’s all this racket?” grey-haired Suga says to Ushijima.

“The Fukurodani birds.” Ushijima is unable to come up with anything else.

“Ugh, Mars’s pets. How unpleasant.” He smiles at Ushijima, and light seems to surround him. “I will help you, brave son of Ceres.”

Ushijima dips his head. “Please.”

Suga produces a small instrument from the ether that surrounds him. “This rattle has the power to remove them. Please use it to save your people. And to piss off Mars.”

“What does it do?” Tsutomu interrupts. “Cast columns of flame? Fill their ears with high-pitched shrieking?”

Suga eyes Tsutomu like he didn’t notice him hanging off of Ushijima before. “No. They’re just afraid of rattlesnakes. They’re birds, after all.”

And Suga evaporates, a refreshing mist left in his wake.

Ushijima approaches the birds, the rattle held above his head like  a weapon. Bokuto laughs at him.

“That isn’t going to work,” Akaashi informs Ushijima.

Ushijima shakes the instrument. Akaashi practically tumbles over backward. “What the _fuck_ ,” he says, settling his feathers, which have stood on end.

Ushijima shakes the instrument again, with more confidence. All around him the Fukurodani birds freeze, then start to stumble, as if Ushijima has shaken the very ground beneath them. As he continues to move the rattle, they sway woozily, tripping awkwardly over their  own legs, as if they can hear something in the rattle that Ushijima cannot.

“Whatever properties this rattle has, mystical or not, the birds are repulsed by it.”

Tendou throws his head back, laughing. “Or maybe you’re just that awful a musician.”

The birds hiss and caw and try to whack the rattle away. But as Bokuto begins to take off, Akaashi follows, and soon the entire Fukurodani flock takes to the skies, screeching their awful screeches, and Ushijima is left with only Tsutomu in the ruined field.

Ushijima examines the trampled earth. “I’m not sure how I’m going to explain this to your father.”

Tsutomu stomps his foot. “If he has a problem, he can take it up with me. I’ll tell him you saved the whole farm.”

“I’m not sure he’ll believe you.”

“I know.”

“I appreciate it, though.”

Tsutomu does not duck away when Ushijima places a hand on his head.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The fourth and fifth labors, involving a panther possessed by Bacchus and the hind of a mystical deer, pass with the summer months. Fall returns, and the leaves on the trees begin to die, and Ushijima’s tasks on the farm shift toward insulating quarters, storing food, and building a waterproof shed for the firewood behind the main house.

The sixth labor comes to him like the second: in a dream. Only this time he has no idea what he is being shown. He sees the greenest vines and the bluest waters, a sky hazy with red and orange, sparkling treasures tucked between nooks in mountain ruins, fallen temples to gods Ushijima has never heard of. A shining bronze belt whose carved illustration seems to dance in the peculiar light.

So he approaches a fortune-teller to help him understand the dream. The fortune-teller, Yamaguchi, tells him that he reads stars, not dreams, and redirects him to another of his kind. This fortune-teller is blonde and bespectacled and _does_ read dreams, but as he bitterly informs Ushijima, this is not an issue of motifs and hidden meanings; it’s an issue of geography. He kicks Ushijima out and tells him to find someone smart.

The smartest person Ushijima knows is Shirabu, who has kept his distance ever since he caught Ushijima sneaking out to the Nohebi Swamp that night months ago. Ushijima can admit he became impatient when the labors first began revealing themselves to him, but he has relaxed greatly, and still managed to keep up a considerable level of productivity.

He visits Shirabu’s cabin, which is more of tent with a wooden floor and canvas walls, round and overlooking a nearby cliff. Ushijima thinks the role of accountant must pay handsomely, because Shirabu’s walls are draped with colorful tapestries and maps of places he’s never heard of. He has a desk covered in yellowing parchment and a globe and shelves of books in languages he cannot understand.

Yes, Ushijima thinks, if anyone can help him, it’s Shirabu.

The accountant balances on a low stepstool, reaching for a weighty volume on the top shelf. Ushijima steps up behind him and grabs the book on his behalf. Shirabu curses.

“Announce yourself properly, farmhand.”

“My apologies.”

“Gee, thanks.” Shirabu scowls and straightens his robes. “What do you want?”

“I need help figuring out where to go next. I had another dream.”

“Another dream? Please, Ushijima, don’t tell me you’re still hung up on this demigod business.”

 Didn’t you see the birds? The boar?”

“Yeah, yeah. We had horrific infestations of horrific creatures the summer past, that’s for sure. There must be something in the water. Goshiki Senior has his best divinators on it.” He rolls his eyes. “He could have asked someone who deals in facts. Such as me. But there’s no changing his mind.”

Shirabu turns his attention to the volume proffered by Ushijima. He fishes a pair of spectacles from the clutter of his desk and thumbs through the pages impatiently, seeking something. He looks up after a moment and sees Ushijima still standing there.

“You’re still here?”

“Yes.”

“Should I kick you out?”

Ushijima shakes his head. “In my sleep, I saw a land that could not be this one.” He describes the scape of his dream to Shirabu who listens without nodding.

“Travel south,” Shirabu instructs him. “Take a ship, but a small one. You will need to navigate some narrow passages between cliffs. And go alone. Those waters are unfriendly, and others will only burden you.”

Ushijima says nothing for a minute. Then he says, a little quietly, “I haven’t left the Goshikis’ land since I was brought here as a child.”

“Besides your peculiar lapses in judgment,” Shirabu says, peering over the glasses, “you are a competent person, Ushijima. I didn’t think a few rocks and some salt water would deter you. And let me tell you about the creatures I have a feeling you will be dealing with.”

So Ushijima sets out to sail the southern seas, in a boat not twice his size, meeting favorable winds along the way.

It takes two weeks for him to reach the land of the Amazons. They live at the top of a mountain unlike any Ushijima has ever seen, ancient ruins upon even _ancienter_ ruins, claimed again by nature. The rise and fall of ages so vast and old Ushijima could never conceive of them, even as a guy in the running for a shot at immortality. It takes him half a day to scale the steep rocky face, and though he is shaded by trees, he finds himself sweating in the strange tropical heat.

He finds the Amazons at the center of a newer temple overlooking brilliant sweeps of ocean in every direction. Each of them leaps to their feat defensively upon his arrival, wielding spears and nets woven from chains.

One—their leader, Ushijima guesses by her ornate armor—steps forward with her spear swung by her side. “Haven’t you heard?” she asks. “No boys allowed.”

“I have no intention of staying.”

“On whose behalf did you come?”

“Ceres.”

“We’re not affiliated.”

“I am,” Ushijima says. “I am her son.”

The leader weighs this. “Sons of goddesses are no better than sons of mortals.”

“I mean no harm,” Ushijima says. The leader, and all her followers, burst out laughing.

“Yeah. Right. Of course not,” the leader says. “I’m Saeko, by the way. This is Kiyoko, Hitoka, Yui, Arisa, Akane…and the little one is Natsu. We’re Amazons, if you couldn’t read the sign.”

“Isn’t your clan supposed to be tall?”

“Very funny. Wanna push it, wise guy?”

“I was not making a joke. The rumors that circulate about your group are inaccurate.”

Saeko waves him off. “Who cares? Now, was there something you think you wanted from us, kid?”

“I was sent a vision in a dream,” Ushijima says, “of a bronze belt.”

“Oh,” Saeko says. “That would be mine.”

“May I have it?”

The Amazons laugh again.

“It’s not for sale, buddy!” Saeko slaps him on the back. It stings. “But you can fight me for it, if you’d like.”

“If you insist.”

The Amazons titter as they gather around, and Hitoka counts down for the sparring to begin. “Three, two…”

Ushijima is knocked flat on his back before he can move an inch.

He has no idea what happened, except that Saeko is really fucking strong. Stronger than a demigod, apparently. He is lucky, he thinks vaguely in the fog of his head, that Amazons have a sense of humor.

“Yeah, dude, you miscalculated _juuuust_ as badly as you’re thinking you did right now.”

Ushijima stands, catching his breath. “Is the belt—” He coughs. “—that important to you and your clan?”

“What? No. It’s just rad as fuck. It really brings together the whole warrior look.”

Ushijima hesitates, unsure what to do. “I understand. I will leave you alone. I will inform my mother Ceres that I have failed.”

Saeko leaps in front of him, flashy armor jangling. “Hold up! Is the belt that important to _you_?”

“I would prefer not to return to my homeland empty-handed. I have been given a series of tasks, and there are people I’d prefer not to disappoint. But I am no match for you, and it seems unwise to trick you. So I will go.”

“Yeah, yeah. Flattery will get you everywhere.” Saeko grins. “Now who is this person you’d prefer not to disappoint?”

“Ceres, of course.”

“And? You sure there isn’t someone else? Someone close to you?”

“Well,” he admits. “I would hate to disappoint the youngest son of the family I work for. We are close, lately. I think I have become his…mentor.”

Saeko raises her eyebrows, mirth in her expression. “Oh?”

“He wants to know how to run a farm, though he will not inherit his family’s own. He is sloppy in his studies, but he works hard at the things he cares for. I think it is admirable that he wants something from his life that is not expected of him. We are unalike in that way.”

“Awwwww,” Saeko says. “It sounds like you care about him a lot.”

Ushijima stares back. If it’s a question, he doesn’t understand.

“Listen, you big stoic weirdo,” Saeko says. “This belt is mine. And it’s amazing. But I may be inclined to part with it if you promise me one thing.”

“Of course.”

“Ask your protégé—this family’s son—what he _really_ thinks of you, sometime.”

“I will, although I can’t say I understand.”

“Oh, you will,” Saeko sings. “Now get going. And son of Ceres?”

“Yes?”

“You may not be as different from this boy as you think.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ushijima arrives back almost too late to save Tsutomu from the seventh labor, a lion sent by the minor god Lev.

He wrenches Tsutomu from the lion’s claws before he can be hurt too badly; it seems the creature pounced on him off-guard. The lion, of course, has an impenetrable hide, and teeth like cut diamonds. Ushijima has no choice but to strangle it. Tsutomu sits toppled over on his butt, eyes widened in horror, and when Ushijima’s finished with the lion, he is greener than Ushijima’s ever seen him. Even the Saturnalia when Tsutomu challenged him to an eating contest.

He outstretches a strong arm and helps Tsutomu to his feet.

“Tsutomu? Are you alright? You look pale.”

“I’m—” He stumbles forward, woozy. Ushijima needs both arms to steady him; Tsutomu has gotten even taller lately, and he’s heavy. “I’m not squeamish, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Good,” Ushijima says. “Would you mind helping me carry this? I think it would be useful to make a cape from its skin.”

Ushijima knows, of course, he could carry the lion by himself without trouble. But he has noticed, as Tsutomu’s _mentor_ , that he responds effectively to positive reinforcement. Plus he promised the Amazons he would ask…

But suddenly Ushijima feels as if now is not the right time to ask such a thing. Tsutomu has just been half-traumatized by the Levean lion; surely he shouldn’t ask when he’s in such a poor state.

The months pass, as do three more labors, and Saturnalia arrives with the dead of winter. Thanks to Ushijima’s vigilant protection of the Goshiki lands, at least according to Tsutomu’s father, the celebration is as vibrant as ever. People gamble with dice and bronze pieces, gifts are exchanged, and the Goshikis play servant for a day. They prepare a banquet for all their workers and serve it to them too, in the main house.

Ushijima does not really understand Saturnalia’s festivities. It is not his favorite holiday, though it is the largest, and a reprieve from the relative boredom of winter months. His favorite, of course, is Cerealia, though the demystification of his incredible luck has made it somewhat less exciting. (Tendou says he is nuts to think this; surely being a demigod is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened in his dreadful pseudomortal existence.)

What troubles Ushijima about Saturnalia is its traditions, which involve, well—breaking tradition.

If you asked him whether he cared all that much about tradition, or propriety, he would say without hesitation, “No.”

But he would be incorrect. He _does_ care. Routine is the only sense he can make of his life. And with all of the chaos and discord of the previous months, a part of Ushijima—one which he would never articulate—would have loved a week of normalcy. Feeding the animals. Milking the cows. Collecting the eggs—tasks usually left for the children of farmhands during the summer.

Ushijima figures he’s expected to dress his best for the role-switching night of Saturnalia, though, so he fastens the Levean lion’s skin into a huge, warm cape which the bitter winter winds are unable to penetrate.

After the meal, Ushijima feels full, and pleasant, despite his discomfort with the holiday. He invites Tsutomu for a walk along the river. They move beneath the stars, and when Tsutomu begins shivering, Ushijima offers to share his cape. It is windproof, after all.

Eventually they reach a fork in the river, and Ushijima suggests they sit, the Amazons’ words weighing on his mind as heavily as the wine from dinner.

“Tsutomu,” he starts. “There’s a question…which I promised I would ask you.”

Tsutomu screws up his face. “No, I _haven’t_ done my arithmetic work, and you can tell Shirabu he can go shove a dick up his— _dick._ ”

“How vivid,” Ushijima says. “That’s not it, though. It’s about your feelings.”

“Oh?” Tsutomu shifts beneath the cape. Ushijima can feel his shallow breaths on his upper arm.

“Tsutomu, what do you think of me?”

“I’m going to beat you,” he says quietly. It seems to lack the usual fire behind it.

“Is that all?”

Tsutomu nods.

Ushijima feels strangely disappointed. Not that he knew what he was expecting, but the Amazons had made it seem like something _important_ would happen if he articulated this question. Maybe he’d miscalculated, asked at the wrong time? In the wrong tone of voice.

“Actually, it’s not all.” Tsutomu sticks his nose in the air, and his eyes flutter shut. “Well, of course I’m extremely strong and smart and destined for greatness…but I guess I should thank you for helping me.”

For a moment, there is only the sound of water rolling over the rocks in the river.

“And I hate it how you look at me, like I’m a kid. Like I’m my _father’s_ kid. And no matter how badly I do at something, you won’t discourage me from it. I don’t get why you won’t tell me when I’m bad at something when you _know_ I’m bad at it. And you’re always worried about me, because I’m so weak and useless and forgetful—”

“Tsutomu—”

“—and you let me follow you around because you think I can’t take the rejection or I’m too stupid to take a hint—”

“Tsutomu.” Ushijima shifts around under the cape to look him in the eye. It’s not hard; he’s only  a few inches shorter. But Tsutomu won’t meet his gaze, looks all around before squeezing his eyes back shut. Without really thinking, Ushijima moves his hand to cover Tsutomu’s, just to let him know he’s there.

“I don’t think that at all.”

“Liar.”

“I do not lie.”

“Then why do you try so hard to protect me?”

“I don’t know,” Ushijima says, because honestly—he’s never thought about it. He’s a creature of routine, and a creature of impulse. Most days he honestly cannot tell the difference between himself, an alleged demigod, and any other human—and he wonders if he will wake up from this long, strange, wonderful dream of the past few months with ideas planted in his head that he never asked for.

Tsutomu unwraps himself from the cape. “I’ll race you back to the banquet.”

Ushijima shakes his head. “I’ll stay here.”

“Afraid you’ll lose?”

“Good night, Tsutomu.”

Ushijima remains by the river. The moon rises, and it sets, and Saturnalia comes to a close.  And he still has no answer for Tsutomu’s question.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tendou comes to deliver the second-to-last labor, after Ushijima peers into the river one morning and sees a golden apple bobbing by his reflection. But when he reaches down to grab it, his fingers close around water, and the vision disappears.

As Ushijima tends to the cattle meandering through the field, he wonders if such an apple can be found on the Goshiki family farm. They grow red apples and green ones, sometimes even goldish-pink—and they are all delicious, he knows firsthand, but they are not the same as the apple in the river, with its glimmering gold skin and blue leaves.

Then _the_ messenger appears in a burst of light and glitter and Ushijima has to shield his eyes from him.

“Ta-da,” Tendou says. “Like my new look?”

“I can’t _see_ your new look.”

Tendou looks genuinely shocked. Or maybe he’s just _that_ good an actor, Ushijima isn’t sure. “Did you just _sass_ me, Wakatoshi? You really have changed.”

Ushijima pets the snout of a cow who wanders over and nudges him. He’s beginning to suspect he’s the only one who can see Tendou. “I have?”

“Before you undertook these labors, you never once thought about leaving the farm, did you? You thought your obligation to the Goshiki family was borne of some natural order. As if humans could hold any high place in the universe!”

“Make your point, please.”

“Now I bet you wouldn’t hesitate for the chance to do things your own way. You’re all grown up.” Tendou smiles. “Well, almost. The real test is yet to come.”

“What do I need to do?”

“Find the rarest, ripest, most delicious apple in the world: the Aoba apple. And claim it on behalf of your mother.”

“Goshiki Farms produces the most delicious apples in the world.”

“Yeah, yeah, maybe you’re _not_ all that different from before, Wakatoshi.”

“Well, where can I find it?”

Tendou makes a _bzzt_ sound and crosses his arms in front of him. “No other hints from your old lady, sorry. But I get the feeling it’s somewhere you wouldn’t expect.”

“I will leave at once.”

“Go get ‘em, tiger.”

Ushijima packs what he imagines he might need, though it’s hard to say when the apple could be anywhere. He’s deciding between a pair of wool mittens and an extra pouch for water when a knock comes at the door.

“Tsutomu.”

“I’m coming with you.”

Ushijima sighs. He wants to tell Tsutomu that it’s dangerous, but it’s hard after their conversation at the river. He realizes now that even before Tsutomu brought it up, Ushijima was only saying it out of habit—of course he knew that Tsutomu was grown up. Because Ushijima had grown up, too. Instead, he asks, “Are you sure? I could be gone for ages. Years, even.”

Tsutomu steps into the cabin. He stares at the flame beneath the stove. “This is your penultimate labor. Plus I’ve never left my family’s land, either. I’d like to see more of the world.”

“It certainly is interesting out there. Penultimate?”

Tsutomu scowls. “My father has insisted I not skip my literature lessons as of late.”

“Come along, then.”

“Really? I mean—of course you would want _my_ help.”

“I do.”

So they wander east, past every fence Ushijima’s ever built, over the mountains which have always choked the horizon panoramically, into the great stretches of sand and unshaded sun on the other side. They ask everyone they meet if they’ve heard rumor of a mystical apple. Most of the passersby laugh, and some of them draw their swords, which makes Ushijima and Tsutomu smile to each other privately, as much of either of them knows how to smile—between the two of them, any aggressor has no idea what they’re getting into.

Finally they catch wind of something— _something—_ hidden among the rocky crags of what was once a mountain, now buried in sand.

Between the rust-colored rocks, slanted and poking their sloped faces to the sun, Ushijima and Tsutomu find it: A body chained to a rock, being pecked away at by birds, just above its stomach.

“Oh holy shit no way no fucking way hell no fuck this,” Tsutomu hisses in a stream.

Ushijima is not squeamish, but Tsutomu isn’t wrong. Even _this_ is a little much. A year ago he would never have guessed the work of the gods could be so gory. Still, he approaches the body without hesitation. He hopes that whatever clue he’s going to find isn’t completely unsavory. Tsutomu creeps behind him, unwilling to make eye contact with the half-eaten body.

“Can you hurry it up today?” the body asks. “I’ve got shit to do, bird-brain.”

Tsutomu practically keels over, his head smashing into Ushijima’s back.

“You’re alive?” Ushijima asks.

The body opens an eye. “Depends on your definition of ‘alive’. If you can call ‘getting your liver pecked out by birds once a day’ _really living_ , then sure, I’m the perfect image of vitality.”

“Who are you?” Ushijima asks.

“I’m Semi. Or, no—I’m bird food, nice to meet you two assholes.”

“Have we offended you?” Ushijima asks. “If so, I apologize.”

“Please tell me you’re less dense than Aeneas Junior over here,” Semi says to Tsutomu.

“We’re looking for an apple,” Tsutomu replies.

“Yeah, and I’m looking for a new liver. Oh wait! It started to grow back just then, I can feel it. The perks of immortality, everyone.” He motions to an audience that doesn’t exist. Tsutomu wavers again, and Ushijima fists a hand in the back of his robes to keep him from flopping over like a puppet.

“What happened to you?” Ushijima asks.

“I’m being punished.”

“By birds?”

“Yeah, well, that’s what you get for fucking around with the gods. They can _not_ take a joke. Eternal torture just because I taught your kind about _fire_ , which, by the way, you’re welcome.”

Tsutomu perks up. “You’re _that_ Semi! From my history lessons. You really _are_ as big a jerk as all the scrolls say.”

“Oh, we got another wise guy here? Eat a dick, I’m the king of wise guys.”

“You wanna fight?” Tsutomu asks, still half-hidden by Ushijima.

“Cute kid,” Semi seethes.

Ushijima frowns. “Both of you, cease. We have other matters at hand. We’re looking for a golden apple, with blue leaves. Our only clue is that it’s somewhere

“Sure, maybe I know something,” Semi says. “Why should I help you?”

“I’m a son of Ceres. She has asked me to prove myself with a series of tasks, and I am finally nearing the end. Please, tell us anything you know. We’ll help you in return.”

“And how will you do that?”

A shadow passes overhead: the bird, returning for another Semi-flavored snack. Ushijima picks up a rock from the uneven earth. He launches it as hard as he can. The bird plummets over a crag with a distant _thunk._

“There. Your liver is saved. Do you want us to unchain you?”

The color drains from Semi’s face, and for the first time he doesn’t look ready to bite their heads off. He shakes his head. “I don’t want the gods to notice anything’s changed. I can entertain myself here, for like, the rest of time, I guess. But, uh…thanks.”

“Of course. What can you tell us about the apple?”

“I can _tell you_ to go jump off a—” Semi clears his throat. “Sorry. Force of habit. This apple you’re looking for—it’s the Aoba apple? Continue another day’s walk east, and you should come to an oasis in the desert. But it’s important you make it there by nightfall, because there’s no other water or shade until then.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re _welcome_ ,” Semi says sarcastically. Ushijima eyes him. “Sorry. Still used to this ‘being an asshole’ thing.”

“Is there anything else we can do for you? Are you hungry?” Tsutomu asks.

“You know, I kind of lost interest in food after I became it.”

“Right. May our paths cross again.”

“Oh, please no. Goodbye, Aeneas Junior.”

So Ushijima and Tsutomu travel east again, away from the sun which sinks into the burning sand, until they spot, shimmering and small on the horizon, an oasis at the end of the earth. When they find the apple, Ushijima smiles brighter than Tsutomu’s ever seen, and he reaches, impulsively, for his hand. Once the apple is packed away, they eat their fill of fruit, and fall asleep at the base of a tree. A bed of leaves in the middle of desolation, the kind of beautiful and peculiar thing one could only find in the liminal spaces between humans and gods. It’s a place, Tsutomu thinks as he nods off, that Ushijima himself probably belongs.

That night, beneath the massive desert moon, Ushijima speaks to Tendou in a dream.

“How can I deliver the apple to my mother? Do I need to climb a mountain? Learn to fly?”

“Just hold on to it for now, kiddo. You’ll have a chance to deal with that later.”

“I am so close to the end of things, after all this time, I can’t stand waiting another moment. Is that strange?”

“Oh Wakatoshi. You really _are_ all grown up.” His image in the dream begins to fade. “The last of labors is waiting for you back home. Sleep through the night—then start back at first light.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ushijima and Tsutomu return home, bronzed by sun and a little worse for wear, the Aoba apple looking as fresh as it was the moment they plucked it off the tree. The other farmhands freeze in place when they arrive at the main grounds. One drops a bucket of fresh milk and just lets it flood around her feet, soaking into the hay.

Shirabu spots them approaching the main house first. “Where have you _been_ ,” he hisses, pulling both of them around the side of the building, away from the curious eyes of the other workers. “Your father has been _furious_ for two weeks since you disappeared,” he scolds Tsutomu, and shoots at Ushijima, “and the farm can’t run itself!”

“There was something we had to do.”

Shirabu sighs. “Look—I’ll sneak you in the back so no one else will make a scene, but you’re going to have to face Goshiki Senior either way. Have fun explaining why you kidnapped his son for half a month.”

Ushijima nods. He has not spoken to the patriarch of the Goshiki family since Saturnalia, though he sees him through the window every day. Goshiki Senior is too old to walk the length of the fields anymore, and Ushijima usually deals business with his oldest son the past few years.

Ushijima accepts the verbal lashing, but when Goshiki Senior turns to his son, he feels the old urge to protect him come welling back up. He wants to say something, but he feels acutely that it cannot be the wrong thing. Suddenly it comes to him, as clear as a bell ringing between his ears, that this must be his final task.

“I have a proposal,” Ushijima says.

Goshiki Senior frowns. “I don’t think you’re in much of a position to negotiate, but go ahead. I’ll listen.”

“If I am able to clean out your stable in a single day, you will give me one tenth of your cattle, and that empty plot of land half a day’s walk west.”

“My stables are the largest in the land. It matters not if you’re strong. It’s an impossible task.”

“Maybe so,” Ushijima says. “But it’s important to me. Please, accept my proposal.”

Goshiki Senior’s frown intensifies—and then he laughs. “Are you the same Ushijima who was brought to me as a boy? Who could not read and had no place to call home? But fine—clean my stables in a single day, and the cattle are yours. Tsutomu, watch him, and report his progress back to me—and don’t _help_ , for goodness sake.”

Tsutomu looks questioningly between Ushijima and his father. He opens his mouth like he wants to fight, then drops his shoulders, his hands hung at his sides. “Yes, father.”

Ushijima heads outside. He is followed by a crowd of other farmhands, and cooks, and washers—everyone’s work comes to a halt. They spread the word of Ushijima’s final labor like fire across the dried-up winter fields. The great Ushijima, who has never failed them before, has promised the impossible: to clean the entire stable, which has become so repulsive and mucked up in the two weeks he was absent, frolicking about in the desert, scandalously, with the Goshiki family’s precious son.

Ushijima moves through the crowd like he cannot see them, cannot hear their heckling and their cheering, cannot register the skepticism and awe on their faces. He walks up to the stable and tears a hole in the wall with his bare hands. The wood splinters, flying back into the crowd, and the other workers fall back in fear.

Once the hole is torn in the side, Ushijima herds the animals out of their stalls, into their enclosed field. They are crowded out there all at once, the horses and the cows and the sheep, and the sound of their cries mixed together fills the air.

Ushijima walks to the fence, the one he has repaired so many times. After only a moment’s consideration, he pulls apart its boards again, leaving a hole gaping where it faces the barn.

Tsutomu watches, taller than most of the crowd, as Ushijima carries a shovel into the forest. He disappears for nearly an hour—and the crowd starts to dissipate, wondering if he’s given up, or just completely lost his mind—when his form appears again, at the edge of the forest. Ushijima digs a trench, wide and deep, until it reaches the barn—and then digs it again, out the other side, back into another river, a quarter of a mile south.

Tsutomu begins to understand Ushijima’s intentions as the water from the northern river rushes down, through the trench, flooding the stables—and out the other side, carrying the muck and manure and two weeks’ worth of trampled, rotting hay. It flows into the southern river, where it is swept out of sights. Ushijima stands with his hands on his hips as he watches the water that passes through the stable changes from a murky brown to crystalline.

When the stables are spotless, Ushijima stops the flow of the water, and fills in the trench as best as he can. He leads the animals back into their stalls. As the sun sets, he repairs the wall—the fence will have to wait—and the crowd stands with their hunks of bread from dinner, jaws slack.

It feels strange, Ushijima thinks, that this is really it: this one final, onerous task, one without bloodshed or travel to faraway lands or animals hyped up on magic. In the end, Ushijima is just another farmhand, cleaning a stable. It feels…incomplete.

He motions for Tsutomu to come near. He weaves his way through the crowd.

“Well,” Tsutomu says haughtily, “that’s exactly what _I_ would have done.”

“Of course.”

Tsutomu’s eyes drop to his feet. “But I guess you’re too good to keep working here, now that’s you’re a demigod. Not that I _care—_ ”

Ushijima places firm hands on Tsutomu's shoulders. “Tsutomu, there is something else I must ask you. And it is something I promised no one I would ask. It’s greedy, perhaps, but I’m asking only for myself…”

Tsutomu’s eyes widen at the question. Tendou watches, from his day’s perch on a tree, as he stumbles back from Ushijima, then launches himself forward, face buried in his Ushijima’s burly pecs. Ushijima leans down to kiss him on the head. Tendou isn’t sure whether to laugh or feel jealous.

 _Humans._ Tendou yawns. They’re still predictable in some ways, after all.

Once the crowd has disappeared, Ushijima and Tsutomu return to the main house. Ushijima is filthy, and soaking wet, but he doesn’t notice. He needs to speak to Goshiki Senior.

“The stables are clean,” he says.

“Impossible,” Goshiki Senior says. “Now I’ll let your indiscretions go, Ushijima, since you’re the best farmhand we have, but any more erratic behavior like this and we’ll have to send you away.”

“He isn’t lying,” Tsutomu declares. “He cleaned the stable. He cleaned the whole thing! And everyone out there saw it, from start to finish—Ushijima did it by himself.”

“It is true.” Ushijima explains the river, the trenches, the repaired hole. Goshiki Senior is furious, but Shirabu coughs politely into his hand.

“It is true, sir, you promised him a tenth of your cattle. You don’t want to compromise your word. It’s bad for business.” Shirabu’s eyes are set on Ushijima. “And from a financial perspective, we can take the hit. We’ve had a wonderfully productive year.”

Goshiki Senior relents.

“Thank you. And one more thing,” Ushijima says. “Tsutomu?”

Tsutomu nods. “Father, I’m going with him. We’re going to have our own farm.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

The next morning, Ushijima packs up his cabin, and with borrowed horses, he and Tsutomu move to the empty plot of land half a day west from their old home. Ushijima digs his fingers in the soil and is relieved to find out it as fertile as he suspected. They’ll be able to raise whatever they like.

“What would you like to grow first?” he asks Tsutomu, who turns red at the question.

It will take time to build a new cabin, but Ushijima sets up a temporary shelter while Tsutomu unloads what little they have from the horses. The sun is golden in the sky, and the grass is flooded with light. Winter is almost over. It feels like the first day of Ushijima’s life.

He is faintly surprised that nothing happened after he completed the final labor. The Aoba apple, with its mirror-like metallic skin and blue leaves, feels as heavy as a stone in his pocket. There is nothing he can do about it, he supposes. He sits outside on a low rock, carving new arrows for their hunt in the morning.

The sun sets, and the stories of the gods are etched by stars in the sky. Tendou appears to him one final time.

“Da-da-daaa!” he fanfares. A rain of sparkles showers from his outstretched arms. “Congratulations, Wakatoshi! You’ve fought snakes and lions and Amazons. You traveled to distant lands. You even managed to use your noggin a couple times there! Ceres apologizes she cannot be here—half-god or not, her form has the tricky issue of _burning the retinas_ of humans to a crisp—but she commends you for your hard work.”

“Thank you, I suppose.”

“You still have that apple? The shiny one?”

Ushijima produces it from his pocket.

“That’s your reward. Eat it, Wakatoshi. You’ll _apotheosize_.”

He pauses. “I’m not sure what that means.”

“You’ll _become a god_! Get with the program, Wakatoshi. What else could you possibly think was waiting for you at the end of all this?” Tendou jabs his index fingers in Ushijima’s direction. “You’ve survived what no mortal should. You’re already half-god, anyway. Sons of Ceres are entitled to this kind of thing.”

“No,” Ushijima says.

“No?”

“I don’t want immortality. I already took what I wanted.”

“Well, there’s no changing _your_ mind, I know that much.” Tendou grins. “You really are an interesting guy, Wakatoshi. You went to the ends of the Earth. You’ve saved thousands of lives—you know how many years you are owed? But all you wanted in the end was some land to call your own.”

Ushijima looks as puzzled and blank-faced as the day Tendou first encountered him. “That’s not all I’ve got.”

“Aww.” Tendou draws a heart around him. “You gonna grow old together?”

“I certainly hope so.”

“Goodbye, Wakatoshi.”

“Goodbye, Tendou.”

And he returns to their shelter, where Tsutomu is stoking the fire. “Can we sleep?” Tsutomu asks. “It’s been a long day.”

“Yes, it has,” Ushijima agrees. “Here.” He arranges them so his head is pillowed on some hay, and Tsutomu’s head is pillowed on his chest. Even in the orange light of the fire, Ushijima can see how red he turns.

“Is this okay?”

“Yeah,” Tsutomu says quietly.

“We have a lot to do. But we can get to it tomorrow.”

**Author's Note:**

> i know you wanted dick jokes and that not being my strong suit i did my best to include like 1.5 ahhhhhhhhh
> 
> but what i lack in ability to write dick jokes i make up for in length
> 
> which, holy shit, is probably the first dick joke ive ever made
> 
> list of references to myths, for the record:  
> • Ushijima is, of course, Hercules  
> • The Nohebi hydra is inspired by the Lernean hydra  
> • The Fukurodani birds are the Stymphalian birds. BIG FLOPPY BIRD FEET  
> • Grey-haired Suga is a reference to the epithetical grey-eyed Minerva  
> • Semi is Prometheus  
> • Levean lion = Nemean lion  
> • That Saturnalia role-switching shit is real  
> • The last labor is the Augean stables  
> • There was supposed to be Reon as Atlas but listen this fic was already getting out of hand  
> • i may have mixed up some roman/greek myth stuff but u know what whatever. this was super fun to write


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